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As if he did not hear her, Ravana stared at her with unabated fervor.
“But know this, lusty fool. I will not give up this life in vain, for I will take birth again, and I will be the weapon of your destruction.”
Having pronounced this curse, Vedavati gazed inward, directing the burning rage toward the center of her forehead. She uttered her lord’s name and was consumed by the flames that erupted between her brows and burned her entire body.
Within seconds, her ashes whirled around Ravana’s feet. He stood there, holding the shank of hair in his clenched fist.
She was gone.
His body felt raw, and he choked down a sob.
How fragile and sweet she had looked with her eyes closed, so desirable, but the blazing comets of her eyes had emasculated him. He lifted his hand toward his chest as if to clasp her hair to his heart, but flung it to the earth instead, a black oblation falling into the gray of her ashes.
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Then he quickly turned away and left the mountains, his demon associates following silently behind. He would try to forget her. But the red-hot rubies of her eyes scorched his dreams. He would never stop coveting that which wasn’t his.
Vedavati’s soul rested within the womb of the Earth as she bided her time to reappear.
In Mithila, King Janaka peacefully scattered seeds into freshly tilled furrows. No sooner had the seed hit the soil than life emerged. King Janaka saw the ground at his feet crumble and crack open. The Great Mother offered forth her daughter. A baby girl appeared, her limbs covered in dust. Lakshmi had chosen King Janaka as her father. No one could imagine that this delicate, dirt-smeared girl was the goddess herself. Lifting the child, his heart filling with affection, King Janaka spontaneously declared, “This shall be my daughter.”
Because she came from the Earth, Janaka named her Sita, “Furrow.”
“Traveling from lap to lap,” Vishvamitra said, “Sita, who has no mother, received the love of many. She is the incomparable princess in whose honor the contest tomorrow is taking place.”
Lakshmana had fallen deeply asleep while Rama sat rapt with attention. Was it possible that Lakshmi, who was Vedavati who was Sita, was the girl he had seen on the balcony?
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chapter 37
Sita’s Visions
ita knew she was a girl unlike others. She had strange dreams of walking in Stunnels of fire but not being burned, dreams of a great woman whose color was like a freshly tilled field, dreams of being like the sky, knowing everything. Sita loved her dreams; they confirmed a deep knowing she had that she was not like other human beings. Only one recurring dream disturbed her. In this one, she stood waiting at an enormous black gate, unable to enter. It had a nightmarish element, and yet she was simply arrested in time, waiting for the gate to open. Sita did not share these dreams with anyone, for her sister and mother already had told her she was too imaginative. Her sister Urmila was the true daughter of Queen Sunayana and King Janaka, while Sita was adopted, her parentage unknown. Yes, she had appeared from the Earth; the Great Mother was her mother. But Sita had heard the whispers. Some said she was a mere foundling, an unwanted child, buried alive at birth. The possibility of this cruelty was therefore part of Sita’s earliest legacy. The mystery of her origin made her both more valuable and less secure in her belonging to her family.
But when Sita saw him, looking up at her from the street, there were no secrets, no question of belonging. She belonged at once to him. He already knew everything there was to know. It was the strangest stirring within Sita, a deep inkling of the soul within her that was not just a fifteen-year-old princess.
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The stunning bowman was the embodiment of masculine beauty, and Sita was shocked at her own audacity. Even before he returned her gaze, she had memorized his every feature. She worshipped every inch of his form. He was luminous like an emerald. His skin was smooth, his chest broad. His black hair curled at his neck. His hands were pink, like lotuses, and so were the soles of his feet. He was a work of art come alive. Sita had never before seen anyone so perfect.
Sita stood for a long time, watching for the young bowman who did not reappear. He had gazed up at her with a longing that was so sweet, Sita had thought her life was complete, right then and there. He was neither boy nor man, but exactly on that threshold where Sita stood, she who was neither girl nor woman. It was possible that she would never see the bowman again.
Before he disappeared in the crowd, Sita felt as if the bowman had pressed a key into her hand. The key to the gate in her dream! Long after he was gone, Sita stood stunned, amazed at the unraveling within and without. The moments with him had felt like an eternity, so much had unfolded within her. It had never dawned on her that the gate in her dream and the maze beyond it was a real place. It was only a dream. She knew she was prone to imagine things. Perhaps this was the case now too, for when she looked down at her hand, she saw no key. But she could swear it was there as long as she didn’t look for it.
The sky whispered, “Come with me and we will find him.” She felt her spirit grow beyond her frame but stilled the expansion at once. It frightened her, for she was reminded again how different she was. Yes, she strove to please her father and mother and to be a proper princess like her sister. But she had to always watch herself—check herself—especially the feelings that began deep in her belly, which felt like a fire burning. She knew how to quell those. She had seen the warning in her father’s eyes well before she had acquired language.
So she shushed the sky and sighed deeply. She would not allow the sky to take her anywhere. For if she did, she might get lost in insanity and never know the real from the unreal.
Sita was startled by a voice behind her.
“Come inside,” her maidservant Padmini said, beckoning with her hand. “What is the matter? You have been standing there for close to an hour. It’s not like you.”
Sita lifted her hands from the cold marble, noticing how stiff her fingers were, especially the hand that had held the little key. Sita shook her hands and flexed her fingers, flicking away the imaginary key and telling herself to end these silly fantasies. Tomorrow she might be wed—if anyone was strong enough to lift Shiva’s bow.
“Come, Sita. Your sister is here for you.”
Sita took Padmini’s hand and went within. It was good to return inside. Here the whispers of wind and sky were more subdued, even silent, and she felt like herself again.
“Padmini,” she hesitated. She was on the verge of speaking about the young bowman.
But what truly could she say? How could she explain that one glance from a stranger had changed her profoundly? No, she wanted to savor this secret.
“Yes?” Padmini asked. “Is it because of tomorrow? Are you nervous?”
Sita sighed. “No. It’s not that. But I begged Father not to call me into the arena.”
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“Why? Urmila is very excited. She can’t wait to see it all with her own eyes.”
Urmila had gone to the arena as often as she was allowed, to inspect the site and the decorations that were under way. Sita had not gone even once.
“Maybe my little sister would feel differently if it was her life at stake.”
Padmini nodded, but glanced askance at Sita’s choice of words.
Before she could reply, Urmila came rushing down the hall. Her vivacious face was flushed. “Sita! Come quickly. Mother sent me with the three final outfits. You are to choose the one you like the most.”
Sita smiled at her sister, admiring her grand features. At fourteen, Urmila was already a grown woman and living up to her name, which meant “Enchantress.” There was very little about Urmila that gave away her tender age. She had ample curves, dressed in bold colors, and spoke like an adult. She had something pert to say on any given topic and was always bursting with energy.
She was pulling Sita along impatiently, having no time for Sita’s dreams today.
Urmila certainly was the wiser one when it came to the ways of the world. But there were other ways of knowing. There were shades beneath the colors that told other stories.
As promised, three elaborate silk gowns waited for Sita. Urmila, Padmini, and the poten-tial bride-to-be gathered around the outfits, which were all very different in their beauty.
One was crimson and bold. The other, lotus pink and demure. The third, green and lush, like a forest.
Padmini draped each one around Sita, and Urmila ordered her to walk about the room so that they might see which one suited Sita best. The other maidservants gathered around, chiming in with their opinions and admiration. Urmila favored the crimson; she had herself picked out the fabric. Padmini mooned over the forest-green silk, saying Sita looked like the goddess of Earth. In the end, Sita chose the lotus pink one. It had an iridescent veil that would trail behind her. It pleased her and as Sita had learned that a princess delighted in such creations of beauty.
Urmila began to describe in detail some of the kings she had glimpsed at the arena. Sita listened in silence, thinking that Urmila had been too young during the first contest. She hadn’t really understood what was happening. Neither had she walked across the arena, a spectacle for the kings to see. That was what Sita dreaded. She knew she would have to face the eyes and hunger of many men. She did not like the way the kings stared at her, as if she was something delicious to eat. Though she had begged her father not to call her to the arena, it was unavoidable. The kings always wanted to see the promised bride.
“Oh, don’t be scared,” Urmila said, noticing Sita’s pensive look. “No one old will have the strength to lift the bow.”
Sita laughed. It was Urmila’s deepest fear that she would be married off to someone old.
Such things were done for political reasons. Both princesses knew that girls like them were pawns in political games.
“If I’m lucky,” Sita said in a teasing voice, “my groom will be someone like Shigraga.”
Padmini and the others laughed. Urmila covered her mouth, too shocked to laugh.
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Shigraga was one of their distant uncles, who had long hair growing from his nose and ears—
exactly the sort of old man Urmila dreaded marrying.
“Father would never—” Urmila’s eyes were horrified.
The girls grew serious. Father was the kindest man they knew, but he was a king first, a father second. That was the price of kingship.
“I begged Father, you know,” Urmila said, “to make my bride-price the same as yours.”
“I see, since no hairy old man can hope to lift it.”
“Exactly! But Father did not indulge me at all. He muttered that he had already lost one daughter to this bow.”
The maidservants all looked at Sita.
“Is that what people say?” she asked.
“Yes,” Padmini answered, with lowered eyes. “They say you will always remain a maiden, unmarried and unclaimed.”
“They say the bow is impossible to lift,” another girl added.
“They are right,” Sita said.
“But then, why did your father—”
Sita looked away. The rumors would go on, no matter what she said or did.
On the morrow, she might be married. Sita was not worried. She trusted Shiva’s bow.
“Thank you, Father,” she whispered.
She was grateful to him for setting this as her bride-price. The ancient bow was impossible to lift. Sita had done the impossible once. She could only marry someone who could do the same. She hoped the green-hued bowman was the one. She hoped he would be bold enough to try and blessed enough to succeed. Sita sent this prayer out to Earth’s elements. She wanted the green bowman or no one. The bow would make that decision. Sita was content.
Queen Sunayana came inside, and they all stood up. She looked at Sita’s choice of dress and smiled with approval. She admonished Sita to rest early and sleep well, but negated her own words when she allowed Urmila to stay. Urmila was a talker. Sita did not know when she would again be able to spend the night with her sister and didn’t disagree with their mother.
As expected, Urmila could not help herself and wanted to talk into the night. Sita fell asleep while her sister was still talking, exhausted by the upheaval of the day.
That night Sita dreamed again about standing at the black gate and being shut out. It started off as usual. She stood by the barred gate alone, with growing unease. A swirling mist of golden light emanated from beneath the door. The edges of the light shimmered with darkness, one fighting the other. She knew without a doubt that beyond the closed gates there was a vast, dark maze she had to conquer. She heard women moaning, sobbing, and sighing; they were trapped within and she was trapped without because the gate was locked.
Always locked. This time, Sita began to search the perimeters of the gates. She needed to find a way to enter. Even though, she was afraid of being trapped within it, like the others.
Usually, Sita’s unease would grow so large she would wake up with a palpitating heart.
On this night, though, the dream was different. She held a small golden key in her hand.
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When she saw the key, her heart leaped with anticipation. Finally, she would gain entrance to the maze. But to her dismay, there was no keyhole! She searched and searched but found no opening for the little golden key. But when she pressed the key to her heart, it whispered: I am the key to your heart. You have found me. Only you can find this gate. It’s hidden in the most unlikely place, in a place so dark no one can find it. The gatekeeper has many heads and many minds. He is impossible to cheat. You can enter only if the gatekeeper asks you to enter. They are within, waiting for you. Help them.
Sita woke with her hand clutched to her heart. When she opened her hand, there was nothing in it, but for a moment she saw faint traces of a small key in her palm. Whether she would ever see the bowman again, he had given her the key to her heart. Now Sita knew that the black gates were inside the heart of a ten-headed gatekeeper. Sita didn’t know why she must enter, only that the crying women within needed her. Their call was one of the strongest forces Sita had ever felt.
The rising sun brightened the new day, and Sita drew her legs to her chest and rested her forehead on her knees. The day had not yet started and already she felt confused. She was a silly girl. Sita took dreams more seriously than her own life, while all of Mithila was awake with the contest for her hand.
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chapter 38
The Bow and the Princess
ama arose with the sun, stirring before Vishvamitra did. He had hardly slept.
He rushed through his morning prayers and bath, which was unlike him.
The whole city was bustling with life, engaged in the contest for the princess’s hand.
Mithila already celebrated as if the marriage was under way. Strings of colorful flags hung across the streets. Pillars were decorated with banana leaves and flower garlands. The ground was painted with intricate designs. The heightened energy all around Rama matched his restless heart.
Vishvamitra led them to the arena where the contest would be held. Because they were the emperor’s sons, Vishvamitra brought them to meet King Janaka. The arena was elbow to elbow with kings from across the world. Sita’s reputation had only grown since the first contest. As Rama made his way through the arena, he glanced at each of the kings, noticing that the contest had attracted the strongest of men. By now, every warrior knew that no man had ever lifted the bow.
Vishvamitra announced their presence, and King Janaka greeted them heartily.
He touched Vishvamitra’s feet and said, “You who are famous throughout the world, bless our endeavor today with success.”
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“Though I’m rather infamous,” Vishvamitra answered, “I certainly bless the contest.
May a worthy man master the bow and win the hand of your daughter today.”
Turning to the princes, Janaka said, “What an honor to host King Dasha ratha’s sons!”
King Janaka was instantly likable; his smile radiated through his eyes. The king inquired about their ages and the welfare of Ayodhya. While Rama answered his questions, he felt the king’s covert study of him. Rama was not entirely unused to this; he had been told his emerald color was unusual, even fascinating. Consciously, Rama relaxed, allowing the king to see him fully. Father had taught him to do that, saying, “People don’t trust you when you hide from them. You have nothing to hide, Rama.” And so Rama practiced his father’s instructions, feeling the prickle of Janaka’s gaze. After a few moments, the king’s appraising eyes turned warm. Rama knew the king liked him.
“The emperor’s oldest son is a handsome lad,” Janaka said to Vishvamitra. “I have not seen the young princes since they were seven. But who can forget Prince Rama’s epic victory at the archery contest?”
Rama felt like seven years old again, a child too young to be included in the musings of the elders. King Janaka’s words evoked a memory of many kings and their reverence for Father.
“He has good muscle tone for a youngster,” Janaka observed. “But I’m afraid Shiva’s bow is in a league of its own.”
“There is more to Rama than meets the eye,” Vishvamitra said. “Like one who has found the answer to an impossible riddle, I feel deeply satisfied by what I have observed in Rama.”
Vishvamitra turned to Rama, including him in the conversation. “Your heart, Rama, is divided into two equal parts. The steely resolve you demonstrated while killing Tataka and her sons, Marichi and Subahu, is balanced by a loving, compassionate nature. Dear prince, when you battled with the blood-drinkers, I saw the prowess of your mind. You showed that you can kill when necessary, destroying evil. The uncompromising steel of a warrior was manifested through you. But the power to destroy is ruthless. It can be intoxicating.
